


The Light

by mireh_lilav



Series: Long Journeys [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of Winterfell, Gen, Introspection, The Long Night, retrospection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mireh_lilav/pseuds/mireh_lilav
Summary: Melisandre's long journey begins somewhere in the east and leads her to Westeros. It's a very long journey.
Series: Long Journeys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603945
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	The Light

She doesn’t remember anything from her childhood - it’s shrouded in the thickest of the thick darknesses. Neither can she recall anything from her time growing up - it was so short after all. The squalor and hunger of her early years pierced by the seagull screeching and the dim lit stunk of the underdeck of the slavers’ ship. There are no children in Asshai, even though Melisandre still slurs her words and tires fast when she climbs too many stairs. And there are so many stairs in the city by the Ash but no children at all - so is she told as she struggles to catch up to her new guardian. There are only adults in Asshai by the Shadow. No matter how old you are when you first arrive. There are no children in Asshai, even though Melisandre had been one up until she disembarked the ship that brought her here.

Her new home is strange. Her new home is shrouded in Darkness far more unimpregnable than the one that swallowed her during the sea voyage. Her new home stenches of Death far more pungent than any rotting corpses of the punished slaves she has seen in her short life. Her new home is silent and yet the air is roaring with the calamity. The deadly river vapours that veil the city mix with the strangely heavy winds that bring the most gruesome echoes with them. Even though the Darkness reigns over Asshai, there is a certain glow to the city that pierces the simple every-night-darkness. The mysterious glimmer that slumbers in the poison-green waters of Ash, one that slides around the abandoned chapels, one that torches up shards of the ornate windows or skittles along the streets that lead to nowhere.

And even though there is this ever present shadow, all Melisandre sees is the growing light. At first, she ignores it as she learns to pass by all the other glimmers, shines and sparkles. Yet, this light is different. It is pure and ethereal, silver-lining the poison-like green waters of Ash at night, reflecting off of the dark, unwelcoming facades of thousand and one buildings in the city, glimmering in the eyes peeking out from the ornamental masks or glimpsed from behind the ornate veils. Guiding her. Guiding her. Guiding her.

Others notice the Light too. Not within themselves or around them but in her. Her guardians share concerned but proud looks when they think she won’t notice. She notices. And she rejoices. They send her to the House of The Lord of Light. The Light explodes around her and for the moment she fears her heart will burst into thousand pieces. She will serve her Light. People at the congregation see to her education and spiritual training.

She is trained to become a shadow-binder one day - the deed abhorred by most of the known world, not by those of Asshai of course, even if some flinch and divert their gazes when she crosses their path. Her veil proudly marked with the sigil of Shadow. Some say the darkness that bore the shadow demons she wants so badly to bind is going to devour her one day. Melisandre disagrees. She is with Light. Her heart is guided.

The light devours time, it devours everything around her, leaving only small insignificant hazes there where once stood her guardians, few friends and acquaintances she had ever had. It’s righteous thing to do. The light battles her weaknesses and her mortality and her doubts and triumphs. It triumphs. It trumps. It triumphs.

Her heart is guided. And so is her step.

For the first time since she has ever seen the Light and acknowledged Its power over her fate, the Light shimmers and dances around her like a skittish horse. She feels a pull towards West, one that starts like a gentle anxiety and develops into a violent push of a raw power. The Light moves in the dazzling spirals above Asshai, slowly bleeding onto the ocean and floating towards the Manticore Islands. It must be her destiny then. She is finally ready to serve her purpose. She will go wherever her Light leads. She dedicated her life to the Light and she will be obedient till the very end. The Light like a comet with an extraordinary tail pulls through the skies, it lights up the stars over her head and dyes the waters with pure glimmer of hope as she stands on the deck bidding her home farewell.

Stannis Baratheon is a brilliant man, one that shines nearly as bright as the Light guiding her. She has found her promise and her destiny. All others around him are so dull. His wife with her constant burden of sadness, the maester blinded by the false faith and finally the worst of all, Ser Davos, whose light is dull to the point of flicker, greyish and revolting to her.

She doesn’t notice the Light dimming right away. It takes time. Too much time. The rot might have started after the ceremony on the beach, or maybe right when she bound the shadow in front of Ser Davos. One is clear, the light is dimmed by the time they go North. Looking back, she doesn’t understand how she didn’t notice it. It comes back full force to her that night when Bolton troops set their camp aflame. But it’s not her Light. It’s not an auspicious sign. It’s not a merciful light. It’s there to punish her. Yet, she interprets it differently as a sign that a new sacrifice is needed. That the triumph can be bought with blood. The Light gets nearly extinguished when they burn the Princess.

The innocent blood weighs them down and drags them into the abyss of the frozen hell. Her beloved Light glimmers. It glimmers. It glimmers.

She failed her Light and her Lord. She is a disgrace. She threw away the benevolent grace of her God. No one will ever know but every time she throws even the smallest glimpse into the flames, the pair of greyish eyes blink at her in horror and pain. She must acknowledge that she was wrong. Oh, so wrong was she and yet she doesn’t mourn for loss of that young life. It’s not something she was taught at the temple back in Asshai - life can be bought, it can be taken, it can be spent and it can be wasted. Yet it is rarely mourned.

She goes back to the Castle Black helpless, clueless and aimless. Like a loose spark in the wind, a dying amber sprung away from the hearth. The hope rekindles in her heart right after the resurrection ritual she managed to conduct on Jon. She catches herself following him, observing his moves and keeping eye on him to the point of owl-like staring. Each breath he takes and doesn’t drop dead. Each step he takes and doesn’t collapse. Each of these steps and breaths lessen her anxiety and worry. There might be hope for them. Her Light wouldn’t lend her Its powers to rip Jonout of death’s clutches if she didn’t manage to regain some of Its favour back.

It all comes crushing down with a lone rider hurrying down the icy path. Ser Davos comes back. It all comes crushing down in the Winterfell hall with Jon bearing the witness. It all comes crushing down with a ghost of a little girl presiding over this catastrophe.

She doesn’t recognise Ser Davos. At that very moment his light isn’t dull anymore. He’s burning with rage, with sadness, with anguish and with so much love. It takes her breath away, it crushes her ribs and nearly throws her to her knees. Ser Davos, the dull, boring man, is suddenly shining brighter than all the stars over Asshai. And she knows. She knows he’s guided. He’s been guided all this time. By a light far stronger than hers. He calls her Lord cruel and she nearly chokes when the presence around her that she came to see as the thread of her fate wavers in front of a mortal man with bitterness and tears alike in his eyes.

The exile comes like a loving embrace, not like a fatal blow. Melisandre isn’t a girl anymore. She isn’t an acolyte in the House of the Lord of Life. She isn’t in Asshai. And she isn’t guided. The darkness of solitude seems to be the only fair sentence for her. For the betrayer she is. Yet, she knows this exile won’t last long. Not with the adversary unlike anything she has ever seen advancing in their siege. She waits for the storm to come and her wait isn’t that long at all.

The darkness that the world hasn’t seen in ten thousand years pulls a shroud over the lands and people’s souls. The Death raises its head and demands the appeasement for letting the life disrespect it for such a long time. This time there are no Children of the Forest and the wielders of the ancient magic to stop the triumphal march of those who came with storm. The magic and the wonder of the past are extinguished, all that is left, are the swords and a fickle hope. In the time of the darkness most drab, she feels a push of her Light. One that pulls her towards Winterfell. She is ecstatic with joy. Drunk with hope. Aching with longing for the guidance. She’s like a moth flying towards her flame.

Her Light grants her a save passage through a Darkness far more scarier and more hostile than what she has ever experienced. She feels the not so subtle brushes of the Dead, their laud collective breath, their hunger for blood and bone marrow and yet the Light keeps them at bay. Makes them hold their distance, so that Melisandre can ride up to the Winterfell.

She emerges in front of the troops lined row after row to defend this little haven of life amongst the deep, unsettled sea of death. She can see the fate of so many of the defenders in the flickering whites of their eyes. The future is, after all, always visible in people’s eyes. She can see their destiny that will fulfil itself soon enough like a cursed prophecy. She can nearly smell the stench of death even though they are still living and breathing. Maybe that wakes her compassion for the first time in her life. Maybe that gives her prayer more power than usual. Maybe that lights up their weapons instead of her Lord’s power. 

Ser Davos appears in front of her like a reminder of all her failures, a walking accusation and a silent tribunal. Their eyes meet for a briefest of moments. Melisandre is overwhelmed with a completely new feeling. One she has never felt before and won’t feel ever again. Remorse. She’s feeling remorse looking at the very man she deemed unworthy of the king’s favours in her prideful days. No one taught her to apologise. She only hopes Ser Davos takes her words as a reconciliatory gesture. Even if she sounds calm, collected and proud of sorts, she still carries the burden of her bad decisions and of the little girl’s death. She isn’t innocent. She isn’t without her sins against the Light. And maybe these sins extinguish the fiery swords so quickly into the charge of their riders.

With every passing breath, with every heartbeat that beats in her chest, the feeling of unavoidable duty grows in her breast. She doesn’t need the direct, clear command to know what the Light wants her to do. She lets her feet take her through the castle gate. She knows more than well enough what she is supposed to achieve. It’s the final test of her fate and faithfulness. It’s her road to the final destiny. These few feet between the Winterfell’s gate and the palisade. Her apostheosis. All her life she has been serving for this one spell. She feels calm even though the people around her fall, die, scream and despair in a mortal dance with death of thousand frozen faces. She kneels in front of the brutely hacked spruce stake. She feels the splinters of ice and wood as they graze her fingers and palms. She focuses her attention on the damp, frozen wood. Her world shrinks to the singularity. And yet, it unwinds itself like a cursed flower at the same time. All of a sudden she sees every single moment of her life. Every single of her breaths, she remembers and feels filling her lungs. All her thoughts unravel and spark with that old, childhood Light.

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

She knows these words. She has said them so many times. She has already said them that night too.

And yet no fire comes to her aid. 

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

She calls over and over and over again. Blood thunders in her ears, her heart thuds heavily in her chest and her breath catches in her throat. Her hands start to shake and her vision starts to swim shaken up by the tremors that run up and down her body. She spits out the words of her prayer, deformed and broken to her own ears and no Light graces this very pit of despair. This is her ultimate punishment. One for her hubris, one for her stubbornness, one for the dead innocent child.

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

Her voice becomes strained and echoing with the brazen tones of despair and fear.

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

She feels tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. Her life had been to naught.

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

There is no mercy for her. There is no mercy for the Living. The Lord of Light has abandoned them. She sees the Dead, she can feel their hatred towards all that is breathing. Soon, she will be no more. She calls to her Lord, to her Light, to her Salvation one last time before the undead lay their claim on her soul.

Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!

The fire that explodes around her takes her breath away. Her heart skips a bit and she stares with unblinking eyes into the ethereal Light of her childhood. It’s her absolution. Her heart feels like a weightless lead weight in her breast, like a ranging fire of ice, like choking on fresh mountain air. Her stumbling upon the Starks’ girl to half-unconsciously remind the wolf-girl about her fate and her duty to the mankind is just a formality, she doesn’t have either the capacity or any strength left to care beyond it. She is dead woman walking now. She has served her purpose and her Light doesn’t need her anymore.

Her world shrinks to the ragged breath and the twilight of dawn. She wants to greet her end in the open field and not constrained by the walls of Winterfell. She steps outside. Her world oscillates around the distant euphoria of their victory and the crushing tiredness of her long life. She ventures beyond the gate. Her world manifests in her stumbling steps amongst the piles of corpses and her necklace’s last of the loving warmth that disappears. She wants to greet her end in the open field and not constrained by the walls of Winterfell. She steps outside. The darkness claims her vision and yet she won’t be abandoned in that final moment.

For she dissolves into the ethereal Light of her childhood days.


End file.
